"I need to send the Hartwell contracts," I say, pulling out my laptop.
"Already did it."
I freeze. "What?"
"This morning. Sent them at six." He's still not looking at me.
"That's my job."
"You were asleep."
Something hot and sharp lodges in my throat. "Right. Wouldn't want to inconvenience you by actually doing my job."
"That's not what I—"
"What was last night?" The question bursts out before I can stop it.
His fingers stop moving. The silence stretches.
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." I stand up, coffee forgotten. "You told me about your wife. I told you about my dad. We stood at that window and you almost—" I stop, because I don't even know what he almost did. Almost said something real? Almost treated me like a person?
"We were both tired," he says flatly. "It's been a stressful twenty-four hours."
"That's bullshit."
Now he looks up, and there's a warning in his eyes. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That's complete bullshit and you know it."
"Claire—"
"No." I'm shaking now, fourteen months of swallowing everything finally rising up. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to have this—thismomentwith me, this real conversation, and then pretend it meant nothing."
"It's not appropriate."
"Appropriate?" I actually laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged. "You want to talk about appropriate? Fine. Let's talk about how you make me work eighty-hour weeks. How you email me at 11 PM on Sundays. How you expect me to cancel plans, skip holidays, basically arrange my entire life around you."
"That's your job."
"No, that's me being pathetic!" My voice cracks. "That's me hoping that if I'm just good enough, just useful enough, you'll finally see me as something other than—than a convenience!"
He stands now, and I can see anger flashing in his grey eyes. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Then explain it to me. Explain why you're so—" I'm gesturing wildly now, "—so hot and cold. Why you almost say something and then shut down. Why last night you looked at me like I actually mattered and now you won't even make eye contact!"
"Because it's not that simple!"
"Then make it simple!" I'm shouting now. "Just tell me the truth! Do you hate me? Is that it? Do I annoy you so much that you can barely stand to be in the same room as me?"
"I don't hate you!" He's shouting too, and something is finally cracking in that controlled facade.
"Then what is it?!"
"I'm in love with you!"
The words explode into the space between us.
